‘The Hanged Man’ or: O Brother, Who Art Thou?

Previously

The world ain’t got no use for soft men.

Probably always been that way. Maybe back when the dirt was still warm from God’s hands, you could get by on kindness, but nowadays? That’s a coin that don’t jingle no more.

Take Daytona Diamonds.

Now, there’s a fella who used to think he could outrun every debt, outsnort every demon, outfight every ghost. Thought if he just kept movin’, kept swingin’, kept grinnin’ through the blood… well, maybe them sins would stop stickin’.

Last we saw ol’ Daytona, he was China-bound with nothin’ but a busted compass and a bad idea, followin' that snake-eyed jezebel Vera Venturi, sultry like summer rot and twice as dangerous. She led him into the belly of that great beast, whisperin’ sweet nothin’s while them scientists promised to carve him divine.

Welp… they carved, alright.

Sent him back home lookin’ like Zeus hisself, feelin’ meaner’n a pit viper in a barrel full o’ broken glass.

Word is, he’s back in Vegas.

Word is, his brother Frankie showed up hopin’ to find what good was left in him.

Word is… he found somethin’ else.

‘Cause here’s the thing ‘bout fellas like Daytona: they don’t break clean. They splinter into sharp little pieces... and when their ain't no part left to break? Hell, they slice up the hands that reach out to help ‘em.

So, saddle up. We’re ridin’ into the dark now. And what’s waitin’ on the other side ain't no man...

It’s what’s left behind when the man’s already gone.

❖❖❖

I

❖❖❖

You ever get the feeling that something bad’s about to happen?

Sure, anxiety's a bitch, but... this wasn’t just that. This was like… a premonition? A hunch, at the very least. Hard to explain, but standing there outside of Daytona’s hotel room with my hands in my pockets, it felt like I was headfirst into a big shitstorm.

He was staying in a suite in this luxury tower just off The Strip; y'know, the kind of place that gives you monogrammed bathrobes and smells like someone sprayed a bottle of money-scented Febreze. Real ritzy. Not where I’d expect to find Daytona.... Not unless he was grifting someone or six drinks deep into a midlife crisis.

I heard the door unlock with a click, but when it swung open, it wasn’t my brother standing there. No, it was an Asian woman in a razor-sharp pantsuit, holding an iPad like an extension of her arm. Her smile was… wide. Not fake, but just too symmetrical? Like it had been practiced in a mirror.

“Franklin,” she said, her voice as soft as warm laundry and somehow twice as comforting. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you. Mr. Diamonds has told us so much about you.”

“...he has?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. Right this way, please.” She stepped aside, gesturing inward.

What was I gonna do? Say no?

Now, look. I’ve lived in and around Vegas for most my life. I’ve been in some high-roller suites and rubbed elbows with folks who drop five figures on a dinner like it’s nothing. I’ve seen indulgence dressed up six ways to Sunday, but this? This was different.

Everything gleamed. The marble underfoot was so clean it practically reflected your thoughts. The air had that crisp, chilled scent that only comes from a combination of filtered ozone and citrus imported straight from Southern Italy. Somewhere, distant and muffled, I could hear classical music; actual strings, not speakers. There were even fresh orchids arranged like a museum exhibit all through the place.

It was like the whole thing was designed to impress a Bond villain.

The woman led me through this palatial suite. I kept my hands in my pockets and tried not to touch anything, like I'd get charged a grand for breathing.

So… are you… Daytona’s new girlfriend or…?” I asked.

She laughed; a gentle, practiced sound.

“Oh, no,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Nothing like that. I’m his liaison. Mr. Diamonds has certain… arrangements now. Business interests. Health protocols. Commitments that require a delicate touch. I simply ensure everything runs smoothly so that he can focus on what truly matters: being Daytona Diamonds.”

“Right,” I muttered. “That clears everything up...”

She didn’t respond. Just kept gliding along while I shuffled behind her. We rounded a corner into what I think was a study, but could have just as easily been a library-slash-cigar-lounge-slash-evil-lair-command-center. Low lighting. Mahogany bookshelves. A globe big enough to hide a body in.

And then I saw him.

He stood across the room in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, shirtless with his back to me. Wide as a truck, cut from marble, practically glowing in the sun bleeding in through the glass. His hair slicked back, his posture military-straight. And for a moment, I swear he didn’t even move so much as to breathe.

Just… stood there.

Like a statue of himself.

Then, finally, he turned.

And he smiled.

And he said, in a voice that boomed like thunder on the plains, “Shitfire, Frankie! How the fuck are ya?”

He came toward me, arms wide, that same old grin bright as ever, but something about it felt… wrong. Up close, his eyes told a different story. They were sharper than I remembered, like a shark moving towards its next meal. When he wrapped me up in a hug, it felt like getting pulled into a bear trap made outta muscle. My feet left the floor. My spine cracked in at least three places.

“I–oof… hey there, big guy,” I wheezed, patting his back like I was burping a baby rhino. “You’ve been… uh… hitting the gym, huh?”

“Hittin’ the gym?!” he shouted, sitting me back down and giving my shoulders one last squeeze. “What, am I lookin' bigger or somethin'?”

He laughed at that. I didn’t. Mostly because I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

“Y'want somethin’ to drink?” he asked. “Got Japanese whiskey. The kind monks piss into barrels or some shit. Tastes like liquid gold.”

“Uh… I’m think I’m good?” I said. “I don’t reall–”

“Elaine!” he suddenly snapped, pointing a finger directly at the Asian woman who’d escorted me through the suite. “Drinks! Monk-piss whiskey! Top fuckin' shelf! Frankie deserves the goddang best, y’get me?!”

“Yes, Mr. Diamonds,” Elaine said, punctuating her words with a little bow. “Right away.”

And just like that, she disappeared back the way we came, leaving me standing wide eyed and Daytona with those massive arms crossed over his chest, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“You believe that shit?” he asked. “Waits on m all day, hand-and-foot. Ain’t got her servin’ me knees-and-mouth yet, but just you fuckin’ wait! Hah! Know’m sayin’, Frankie?! ‘Course you do!”

He gave me a quick slap on the back. I stumbled, but managed to stay upright. He laughed again, loud and way too pleased with himself. At least some things don’t change, huh? I tried to match it with a chuckle, but all I could muster was a weak little ‘heh’ that sounded more like I had something caught in my throat.

“So,” I said. “You… seem like you’re doing good.”

“Doin’ good?” he repeated. "Frankie, I’m doin’ better than just good.”

He stepped past me and grabbed a cigar from a crystal humidor on a nearby table.

“I got energy runnin’ through me like a freight train full’a lightnin’,” he said. “I can bench press a car. I ran five miles this mornin’, didn’t even break a goddang sweat. My piss comes out so pure it could bless a baptism. I ain’t slept in four days and I feel fuckin’ incredible. I’m the best I’ve ever been!”

He blew a smoke ring before he turned back around and pointed that cigar at my face.

“That’s why I need you, Frankie.”

My stomach sank.

“Need me for… what?”

“To manage me, dumbass!” he barked, grinning like he’d just played a winning hand. “Get  the band back together! You and me, just like the old days! I’m talkin’ full-time, Frankie! You make the calls, grease the palms, make sure PRIME and ol’ Mother Troy are keepin’ me happy. I train and I fight and, by god, I make both of us fuckin’ rich! Whaddya say?!”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first. How do you answer a question like that when the guy asking looks like he’s halfway between a Marvel supervillain and a high-end meth dealer?

“Daytona, I… I dunno… I mean... isn't that the Asian lady's job?” I muttered. “I don’t think I’m the right guy for that anymore”

His smile didn’t falter, but it didn’t get any warmer either. Just froze there.

“Sure you are, Frankie,” he said, stepping in real close. “Ain’t nobody knows me better’n you do. Elaine's the help, you're blood. You keep me on the rails. Hell, back in the day, you were the one who made sure I didn’t go shootin’ myself in the foot every other week, werent’cha? You kept the train on the tracks. And now? Shit, this train’s haulin’ ass straight for the top of the mountain!.”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“They’re runnin’ The Almasy again, Frankie, and you best believe I’m gonna win the whole damn thing. A couple months from now? I’ll be Universal Champion. It’s a foregone conclusion,” he said. “And I’m gonna have that shit wrapped ‘round my waist ‘til I retire. But I ain’t doin’ it without my brother ridin’ shotgun.”

I looked at his hand. Then up at his face. Then back down again. I don’t know why, but in that moment, I didn’t feel proud or grateful or even excited. I just felt… small.

Really, really small.

“...I’ll think about it,” I said.

He gave a wink, slow and smug, like he already knew the answer.

“Atta boy,” he said. “Knew you still had some balls rattlin’ ‘round in there. Now then… Elaine! Where the fuck are those drinks?!”

And just like that, I was caught all over again.

Hook, line, and sinker.

❖❖❖

II

❖❖❖

“Who the fuck is Sebastian Gold?!”

It was a few days later and we were somewhere over the Midwest, bound for Milwaukee in a private plane, Daytona’s voice echoing like a sermon wrapped in fire and brimstone. I shouldn’t have been there. I hadn’t even said yes to being his manager… but I told myself it was just a test run, y’know? A trial. Morbid curiosity, really. Like rubbernecking a car crash.

He was pacing the aisle; rhinestone encrusted cowboy boots, still shirtless, designer sweatpants, a glass of something brown and expensive sloshing in one hand, cigar in the other. I was just trying to disappear into the leather seat.

Elaine sat across from me, stone-faced, working on her tablet with the poise of a court stenographer. There were a couple of other folks on board too; other suits, all ostensibly Chinese, probably handlers, fixers, miracle aligners, all of them pretending not to notice Daytona storming like a hurricane.

“That’s who they got me up ‘gainst?! Sounds like a game show host or a goddang cologne brand!” he snapped, spinning on his heel. “Sebastian Gold! Get the fuck outta here! What’s he gonna do, hit me with a bottle of white wine and an overpriced haircut?! Tell me what it’s like ‘Unda da Sea’?! Motherfucker, I’m the King of the Ocean!”

“I think he was already around before you left,” I mumbled. “He’s actually been… kinda solid, y’know? He even had the Alias belt, defended it three times and everything. You, uh… haven’t been keepin’ up with PRIME, huh?”

He stopped mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face me. The cigar burned in his hand just like a fuse.

“Frankie,” he said. “You think I’ve just been sittin’ ‘round in silk robes, drinkin’ bubble tea and learnin’ fuckin’ Mandarin while the rest of the roster got a head start without me…? S’that what you think, Frankie?”

He stalked toward me, one deliberate step at a time, until he loomed, shoulders wide, breath slow, eyes sharp enough to skin a man alive.

“Naw, I ain’t been keepin’ up with PRIME.. Y’wanna know why…?” he asked. “‘Cause I am PRIME. It ain’t worth jackshit without me, it’s just a buncha kids playin’ dress-up in daddy’s boots. Don’t matter if ol’ Sebastian had the Alias title, the Universal title, or the goddang Constitution signed by fuckin’ Elvis hangin’ ‘round his neck. He ain’t me.”

For a second, I genuinely thought he was gonna yank me up by my collar and chuck me out the emergency exit mid-flight just to prove a point.

But then… ping.

A gentle ringtone chirped from Elaine’s iPad. She glanced up, serene as a summer pond, and offered the softest smile I’d seen all day.

“Mr. Diamonds,” she said. “It’s time for your medicine.”

Daytona froze like someone hit the pause button. His eyes flicked to Elaine, then back down at me. Then, slow as molasses, that wild energy started to shift; a wave pulling back from the shore.

“Goddang right it is,” he muttered. He took one last long drag on his cigar and crushed the embers out in an ashtray, smoke curling around his head like a makeshift halo. Elaine rose smoothly, already holding a little black case. From inside, she pulled a prepped syringe. Daytona didn’t flinch. He held out his arm like a king granting an audience.

“Frankie, I bet you’re sittin’ there thinkin’ I’ve lost my damn mind, but lemme tell you somethin’,” he said as she worked. “When I walk out in Milwaukee? When that bell rings? You’ll see what I’ve become.”

Elaine withdrew the needle and handed him a silk napkin. Daytona wiped at his arm, flexed once, then let out a slow exhale. The tension in his shoulders eased just as his eyelids went heavy.

“You’ll see,” he mumbled as he settled into his seat. “And so… so will Sebastian… fuckin’... Gold…”

His head lolled back against the headrest, mouth slightly open. Within seconds, Daytona went quiet, snoring soft as a kitten. I sat there for a second, trying to figure out what I’d just seen before I finally turned to Elaine.

“...what the hell did you just give him?” I whispered.

Elaine didn’t look up from sealing the black case. She didn’t even pause as she answered.

“We have a saying in China, Franklin,” she said. “‘Jǐng shuǐ bù fàn hé shuǐ. It means… well water should not interfere with river water. Poignant, wouldn’t you say?”

And just like that, the cabin was quiet again save for the hum of engines, the soft snoring of a sleeping giant, and the cold realization in my gut that I was already in way too deep.

❖❖❖

III

❖❖❖

The night before ReVival, the fizzle finally gave way to a full-blown explosion.

We were in a private dining room in a way-too-expensive Milwaukee steakhouse; the kind where the wine list needs its own bookmark. Daytona insisted, one last supper before he rode into war the following night. First time since the suite, just the two of us; Elaine nowhere in sight.

We hadn’t said a word to each other since we sat down. Daytona cut at his steak and drank straight from a bottle of wine like the glassware was beneath him. I barely touched mine. Didn’t have an appetite, I guess.Now and then, he’d glance up at me, that wild glint in his eyes, like he was daring me to say something, like he was itching for a fight that didn’t start with a bell.

And hell, maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Maybe I should’ve just sat there, nursed my beer, and stayed quiet… but I guess caring has a way of making you do dumb shit, huh?

“Daytona…” I said, trying to sound casual. “You… okay, man?"

"I'm just fine," he said. "Why you askin'?"

It's just... since you got back…" I muttered, trying to find the right words. "...who are these people? What’re they putting in you? Your medicine?”

He froze, knife clutched tight in his fist. His head tilted just a little, but when his eyes met mine again? They were like cold and glassy.

“Y’really wanna start this?” he asked. “Right now? The night ‘fore I go out there and remind the world who the fuck I am? A night when we’re ‘sposed to be celebratin’?”

I felt a lump in my throat, but I pressed on. No turning back. “I’m… just saying. Whatever they’ve done to you… this feels off, Daytona. Like maybe they might not have your best interests…?”

His upper twitched.

His eyes narrowed.

He leaned forward.

“You don’t know jackshit, Frankie,” he said. “You sit there actin’ like you got the whole game figured out, but you don’t. You see what I want you to see and that’s it.”

The air between us felt like it might ignite on its own. His breath hitched once, like he was trying to choke back whatever was clawing its way up his throat. Rage, maybe. Regret. Hard to tell anymore.

“I don’t need you worryin’ ‘bout my best interests,” he said. “I don’t need you babysittin’ me. I need you to believe in me. Like you used to. Is that too much to fuckin’ ask?”

I swallowed hard. My voice came out quieter than I meant, but steadier than I felt. “...I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t be a part of this, Daytona. This is… this is something else. Something bad.”

His face twisted. For a second, I thought maybe the tension would break like a fever, that he’d shake it off and apologize.

But no.

In a blur of motion, the chair legs scraped the floor as he shoved back, coming up so fast the table rattled. His plate clattered, his fork falling to the floorboards. He crossed the table like it was nothing, grabbing a fistful of my shirt and pulling me out of my seat.

“You can’t be a part of this?!” he hissed, face inches from mine, eyes wild, spit flying. “You don’t fuckin’ get to opt out, Frankie! You’re in it! You’ve always been in it! You’re my fuckin’ brother and you’re gonna ride this out with me, whether you like it or not!”

I tried to pull back, but as soon as I did, a fist collided with my stomach.

I yelped, doubling over as the wind left my lungs.

“You don’t get to walk away from me!” he barked. “Not now! Not after everything I’ve done! After everything we’ve been through!”

Another shove, hard enough to send me sprawling back into the chair, nearly tipping it over. My ribs ached where his knuckles landed. My heart pounded like a war drum.

“Jesus, Daytona! What the fuck is this?!” I gasped, hands held up in some useless gesture of peace.

His eyes glistened, caught somewhere between fury and something that almost looked like desperation. He wiped a hand down his face then pointed that same hand right at me, finger trembling.

“You don’t get to say no to me, Frankie,” he growled. “You’re my brother and you’re gonna be my fuckin’ manager. You owe me. You fuckin’ owe me.”

I felt my throat tighten, like every word I wanted to say got caught behind my teeth. And at that moment? Looking up at him, big and wild-eyed and trembling like a live wire? I realized I didn’t have a choice.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll be your manager. Just… just sit down, alright? Let’s talk about this.”

For half second, he just stood there like he didn’t know what to do now that I’d said yes… then, with a roar that shook the walls, he grabbed the edge of the table and flipped it clean over. Plates shattered, silverware hurled, half a steak slid across the polished wood floor.

“AW HELL, FRANKIE! I KNEW YOU’D COME ‘ROUND!”

It was a mixture of ecstatic joy and barely-contained rage, a manic outburst punctuated by his fist colliding with the nearby wall. I sat still, like one false move and he'd rip out my throat. The crash brought the waitstaff running. One froze in the doorway, another took a cautious step inside.

“Sir? Is everything–”

“STAY THE FUCK OUTTA THIS!” Daytona yelled, spinning on them so fast they nearly tripped over themselves backpedaling. “PRIVATE. FUCKIN’. BUSINESS!”

They didn’t need telling twice. They backed off, murmuring apologies as they retreated out the door, leaving just me and him and the wreckage.

Daytona wiped his sleeve across his mouth, breath still ragged. Then, without so much as another glance at me, he turned and stormed off, boots thundering against the floor, shouldering the door open so hard it almost came off its hinges.

I stayed right where I was, already knowing full well I'd just signed up for something I wasn't coming back from.

Not whole, anyway.